Anya and I spent the weekend in Whistler, shacked up in the Summit Lodge. November was in full effect; fog, rain, and near freezing temperatures, so we stayed indoors most of the time.
Having lived in Whistler for 4 years, I recognized the look on many people's faces- the pale, expectant faces, numb from 2 months of rain and manual labour. Looking up at the clouds obscuring the mountains, hoping that the rain in the valley means snow above midstation. I saw myself in those faces, and I realized that I have travelled a million miles from their situation. I have become the person I hated when I was 22. A city-dwelling, career-minded married guy whose idea of a good time is a dinner party with enough red wine to last late into the night and who complains because the VW dealership screwed up and his wife does not have her new Passat Wagon. But at the time I cared only about getting my share of powdies. Everything else came secondary. It was great until I had achieved my goal of skiing everyday without having to work a full time job. Like the residents of the Beach it turned into hell.

So while most people ignored me and chalked me up as just another yuppie tourist, I kept my mouth shout about my past, and what many of these young punks may face in the future. Everyone's got to learn some things on their own I guess.